Rewind

Back in the day, when I lived in San Francisco's Castro District, periodically there would come a knock on the door and I would answer it to find the slouching figure of Lynn Breedlove standing there, holding a package requiring my signature. Knowing her to be the singer in Tribe 8, as well as in the courier biz, I would ask what her band was up to, and she would hand me a flyer, usually for a gig at El Rio (tagline: Your Dive) or some other sweaty local venue. Ah, those were the days.

So, it was with a touch of nostalgia that I found myself a couple of nights ago watching the new, improved, transified Lynnee Breedlove, not hollering shirtless into a mic or chopping up a dildo but striding onstage nude, save a harness and purple appendage, at Bar Wotever. Not content with being a musician, novelist, and filmmaker, Breedlove is now trying out stand-up comedy. It wasn't the most side-splitting set, but there were a few good one-liners and, with charisma to burn, Breedlove carries a great deal of charm, even if the material was a bit, eh, d__k-heavy for me.

The evening was a bit of an SF-early 90s reunion, as not only did I see a few familiar faces from the past at the gig, but earlier I was reunited with an old activist pal-turned-filmmaker, Consuelo Ramirez, whose doc on Yo Majesty, Keep It Movin', showed at the LLGFF. This being her first film, she was thrilled to come to London to show it and had a plethora of behind-the-scenes stories about the band, which I can't repeat but which may turn up in her book in progress.

I tell you it was almost like 1991 all over again, but that's silly. After all, back then there was a recession and the USA was engaged in a pointless war in the Gulf.